


A Pair of Gloves

by fengirl88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversaries, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Friendship, Gifts, M/M, Memory, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are these for?” Lestrade says, staring at the black leather gloves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pair of Gloves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginbitch/gifts), [Kate_Lear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/gifts), [warriorbot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorbot/gifts).



> Happy third anniversary to the Fangirl Ninja Army! My thanks to thimpressionist for cheering me on and to Kalypso for beta wisdom.
> 
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> 
>  
> 
> **NB: contains spoilers for S3 Ep1, The Empty Hearse**

“What are these for?” Lestrade says, staring at the black leather gloves.

They look like that pair of Sherlock’s he’s always coveted, but they’re obviously new – the (eye-watering) price tag’s still attached. Must be something to do with a case, but what?

“They’re for you,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t add _you idiot_ , but the words hang in the air.

No use trying to work out why Sherlock does anything, Lestrade knows that by now. Just end up with a headache. But London’s in the middle of the biggest heatwave for twenty-five years, so why anyone would think winter gloves were a good idea is beyond him. In this weather, they’re about as much use as a pair of fur underpants. 

“This isn’t some kind of weird sex thing, is it?” he says, because you can never be sure what Sherlock’s going to come up with in that department.

“Third anniversary’s leather,” Sherlock says, as if this all makes perfect sense. “I looked it up.”

“Third – what?”

“Anniversary,” Sherlock says, a bit impatiently. “Double murder in Kensington. First case I solved for you.”

He’d remember that, of course he would. Never remembers anyone’s birthday, and the things he says about sentimentality could strip paint off a wall, but Sherlock’s love affair with crime is the real thing. Talk about being married to your work…

“Thanks,” Lestrade says, because he’s not sure what else to say. 

“What do you mean, weird sex thing?” Sherlock demands.

Lestrade groans. Should have known he’d pick up on that. The images pushing into his mind make him sweat, _black leather moving against pale skin as Sherlock shivers and moans and arches up into the caress…_

“Bad idea,” Lestrade says hoarsely. “Probably ruin the gloves. They’re nice. Gloves.” 

Oh, very smooth, Lestrade, very coherent. It is entirely possible that something’s actually broken in his brain.

Sherlock’s got that experimental look in his eye that bodes no good at all. “Let’s go to your flat,” he says, beaming.

 

They don’t ruin the gloves, because Lestrade is _not_ wearing all his clothes to bed in a fucking _heatwave_ , thank you very much. It’s still a pretty memorable anniversary celebration, not least because Lestrade’s phone goes off at the most inconvenient possible moment with news of another headless corpse, and Sherlock gets dressed so fast that Lestrade threatens to ring the Guinness Book of Records. 

“It’s a website these days,” Sherlock says, buttoning his shirt at high speed. “Do try to keep up, Lestrade.”

 

When he finally gets home at the end of a very long day, Lestrade puts his new gloves away in a drawer, the way he does with gifts he likes too much to use. It’s a habit he’s never quite broken himself of, though he knows it’s stupid. He doesn’t take them out again till a cold day in November, five years later, the kind of day that makes you think wistful thoughts about roaring fires and mulled wine.

Not much chance of either: instead, there’s terrible coffee from the coffee-stall outside the court, and Anderson spouting his latest crackpot theories about how Sherlock survived the fall. Corpse-swapping, bungee-jumping and Derren Brown… _Bollocks_.

The gloves are beautifully soft and he’s grateful for the warmth, but that’s not why he’s wearing them; he’s known colder days than this. He put them on this morning in honour of Sherlock, because surely today’s verdict is a foregone conclusion. The shade of Richard Brook is about to be dispersed for ever, the memory of Sherlock Holmes vindicated from Moriarty’s lies and the tabloids’ sneers. 

It’s too late, of course: two years too late, whatever Anderson believes. The verdict’s not some kind of magic reset button, to undo all that’s happened. He watches from a distance as the reporters deliver their pieces to camera, their voices overlapping and blurring as they run through the story of Sherlock’s fall.

“Well, then,” he says, turning to Anderson and raising his coffee cup. “Absent friends.”


End file.
